Keeping Abreast of the Situation

Lately, my Facebook page has been flooded with opinions on public breastfeeding with people (usually those who haven't or won't breastfeed) weighing in on every side of the issue. My son is two years old, and I pretty much breastfed him anywhere/everywhere: stores, parks, movie theaters, etc. I rarely used a cover because 1) he was, and still is, the squirmiest wiggle worm; 2) a blanket over your shoulder draws more attention; 3) I didn't like trying to balance a blanket or making sure I always had one with me. I also rarely excused myself from situations to feed him elsewhere because 1) I refuse to nurse in a bathroom stall; 2) Texas summers are unbearable and I don't want to run the A/C while being banished to a car; 3) I don't want to miss out on anything.

Despite being confident about my choices regarding how/when I fed my kid, the comments and implications from the other side do hurt.

When I was fourteen, my breasts were severely burned with battery acid. The scars and trauma from the accident caused extreme anxiety attacks. Sometimes just leaving the house was (and sometimes still is) a struggle. I felt (feel) like my body betrayed (betrays) me because of the scar tissue and the motor skill problems from a TBI. When other people, usually generally good people, talk about public breastfeeding in a manner meant to shame women for their breasts, those old feelings of crippling anxiety arise.

For me, just being physically able to breastfeed is a miracle. The skin grafts, amazingly, do not cover any milk ducts. This vessel of mine which had been shattered and super-glued back together provided nourishment for my child. I genuinely feel sorry for people who would rather be rude to me or compare me to a slut or call me an exhibitionist for not shamefully hiding myself than to celebrate with me this miracle.

It was only a few years ago that I embraced this imperfect body. When I fed my son in public, it wasn't about you. It was about my son. It was about me accepting my body and claiming my victory over anxiety. I refuse to return to the years where I hid in fear and shame. I refuse to be revictimized by you.